


The S. Rogers Memorial (it’s NOT a shrine) to J. B. Barnes

by SkyisGray



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Artifacts, Canon couples, M/M, Memorials, Plus Clint/Natasha, Rotating points of view, Teamwork, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, sad Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 08:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1933773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyisGray/pseuds/SkyisGray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Avengers realize that Steve doesn’t have anything to remind him of Bucky Barnes, they embark on a project to track down Bucky memorabilia.  But it seems that Steve isn’t the only visitor to the (unofficial) J. B. Barnes memorial (which is totally NOT a shrine, Tony).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The S. Rogers Memorial (it’s NOT a shrine) to J. B. Barnes

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [S. Rogers的 J. B. Barnes纪念堂（不是圣堂）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4020571) by [joankindom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joankindom/pseuds/joankindom)



> This was a study in characterization and writing from different points of view. It is also the lightest thing I've written in a while. 
> 
> [LiteratureOrgasm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LiteratureOrgasm) was kind enough to beta for me!

Tony is in Steve’s apartment because, really, it’s Tony’s apartment, and he can damn well make sure his tenants aren’t violating any health codes. 

Every dish is clean, dry and stacked neatly in cupboards.  (He might be going through Steve’s cupboards.  Technically, his cupboards.)

All items of clothing are balled unobtrusively in the hamper or folded crisply in drawers.  (There’s a possibility he’s digging through Steve’s drawers.  He can’t actually make an argument that he owns the dresser.)

So everything appears ship-shape on Steve’s floor; no health code violations here.  However, landlords should always be proactive about checking these things. 

“Tony, what purpose could you possibly have for being in my apartment?” Steve says when he catches Tony staring into his medicine cabinet.  Steve sounds more bemused than angry, so Tony goes for the truth.

“Honestly?  I just wanted to see if you had any fun vices stashed away.  You know: porn under the mattress, online casinos in your browser history, expired medications lying around. That sort of thing.”  Steve blinks at him.

“Tony, I haven’t even been unfrozen long enough for prescriptions to expire,” he says.

And that got awkward fast. 

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Tony tells him with a winning grin, but when Steve doesn’t instantly forget what they’d been talking about in the face of a compliment, Tony forges on.  “Seriously, that afghan?  Brilliant and a desperately needed pop of color in the living room.  If you like deep reds and bright oranges, that is.  And the fridge?  I’m diggin’ those magnets, where’d you get them?  You know how I feel about the industrial aesthetic.”

Tony’s eyes search the living space desperately for more things to point out as he slowly backs away from Steve. 

Fuck it. He’s got nothing.

“Damn, Cap, you actually don’t have a whole lot in here.”  He scans the blank walls.  “J.A.R.V.I.S., why is Cap’s apartment so depressingly barren of decoration and tchotchke?” 

“Captain Rogers has not attempted to decorate beyond the drawing taped to his bedroom wall.  Perhaps he has a healthy appreciation for minimalism,” J.A.R.V.I.S. tells him.  Damn, Tony’s inventions sure are sassy today.  First Dum-E bringing him a mug of dry coffee grounds and now this. 

Tony had (of course) noticed the drawing in Steve’s room, had even briefly scrutinized it to see if it contained any breasts or toilets or whatever weird shit is wont to show up in modern art.  The drawing is just of Bucky Barnes, Cap’s archetypally faithful (and, unfortunately, long-since splattered) sidekick from the war.  Tony had grown up with pictures and tales of Steve-and-Bucky; one more picture on Steve’s wall isn’t exactly earthshattering.  It’s expected and therefore boring. 

Tony escapes Steve’s totally unfair guilt-trip about respecting other people’s privacy and goes back to his lab.  He spends about fifteen minutes adding enough American flag-themed decorations to his Amazon cart to cover every wall and surface of Steve’s apartment, and then Pepper calls him, because she’s asked J.A.R.V.I.S. to tattle on him whenever Tony is attempting to make non-work-related purchases in excess of five grand. 

“No,” she says without preamble when Tony connects the call.  “Take all that stuff out of your cart.”

“But Steve doesn’t know anything about physical space embellishment,” Tony whines.  Yes, Steve needs patriotic salt and pepper shakers, he decides.  “I’m trying to help him adjust to the new apartment and the new…well, life.” 

“Steve has enough stars and stripes in his uniform.  He doesn’t need to be assaulted with it in his down time, too,” Pepper states calmly. 

“I am affronted and aghast that you don’t think our national icon wants an American flag shower curtain,” Tony shoots back.  “Of course he wants a fucking American flag shower curtain.  He loves this shit.” 

“Did he say that, Tony?” is Pepper’s response.  “Did he actually say the words, 'I like decorating my living space with American-themed décor?'”

“No, he didn’t _technically_ say those words.”  Tony rolls his eyes at how literal Pepper can be sometimes.  “But babe, he needs this!  He doesn’t know a thing about surrounding oneself with happy things; his walls are barren and empty and very, very depressing.  I’m trying to do something nice for the guy!  I want him to like living here and like this century, by extension.” 

Tony’s practically whining at this point; doesn’t Pepper want Steve to have something besides a window overlooking the ruins of the Chitauri attack to look at?  Tony does, because Tony’s a good friend. 

“He doesn’t have anything on the walls?  Not even a clock?”  Pepper’s voice is softer now.  Tony is totally going to win this.

“Not even a mind-numbingly boring landscape.  Nothing.  Completely bare.”  Then he remembers one small detail.  “Oh, except for this picture of Bucky Barnes that he drew and taped up.  I got him a picture frame to put that in, but I couldn’t really remember what size it was, so I actually got six picture frames.  There’s one that looks like the constitution.” 

“He drew it himself?”  She still sounds thoughtful, even though Tony doesn’t see why that matters.  Steve’s an artist; artists draw the things they know. 

“Yes.  Do you think Steve wants a mouse for his laptop?  Mice are pretty passé, but that sounds like something he’d be into.  Because there’s this mouse pad-”

“Tony, stop,” Pepper commands gently.  “The only picture of Bucky Barnes that Steve has, he drew himself?”  Tony makes a noise indicating affirmation, still scrolling and not seeing her point.  “Tony.  That’s…that’s incredibly sad.”

“Mmm, why?”

“He doesn’t _have_ anything to remind him of his best friend.  The only thing he has, he had to make when he woke up.”  And that’s when Tony gets it.  He stops shopping and really thinks about what she’s saying.

Shit. It really is sad. 

“This isn’t going to be fixed by flag paraphernalia, is it?” he asks a moment later.  He swipes the screen a few times and hovers over the ‘Delete contents of cart’ button. 

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“So how _do_ I fix this?” Tony asks as he clicks and then opens up a blank document.  He types ‘Grieving Cap/No Bucky stuff’ at the top and waits for Pepper to guide him to the light. 

“I don’t know, Tony.  Why don’t you ask the other members of your team?  I’ll brainstorm today, but I have to go now.”  They exchange a few words about dinner and then hang up. 

 

Tony assembles the Avengers, minus Steve, in his rec room the next afternoon. 

“Why did you call me off the firing range and say it was an emergency?” Natasha asks as she glares daggers at Tony. 

“My experiment is at a crucial point,” Bruce chimes in. 

“Okay, you?” Tony says, pointing at Natasha, “Don’t need to be any scarier with a firearm.  And you,” he now points to Bruce, “should have taken me up on my fucking offer to staff your lab with ‘bots.  So now you deal with your own decision.  Anyone else have a reason why they shouldn’t be at this very important team meeting?”

“Why is the Captain not here as well?” Thor asks, sounding distressed.  “Has something befallen our leader?” 

“Cap is actually the reason why I called this pow-wow,” Tony says as he sinks into a couch and takes a sip of his scotch.  Of course, the important meeting hadn’t gotten underway until everyone had a drink in their hand.  Bruce has a soda, and Thor has a wine cooler, while Clint and Natasha both have straight vodka in eight-ounce tumblers.  Tony highly suspects that Clint is just trying to keep up with Natasha. 

“Okay, so the long and short of it is that I was conducting an investigation into Cap’s potentially salacious personal life yesterday-”

“You were snooping,” Clint cuts in, right at the same moment as Bruce asks, “ _Why_ were you doing that?”

“Hey, we’re a team.  It’s not fair if the team has dirt on all of its members except one,” Tony insists with his hands raised to ward off any physical rebukes, though,  not quickly enough to stop Natasha’s jab to his ribs.  She’s kind enough not to break anything. 

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The guy doesn’t even have spices in his kitchen, seriously, nothing interesting there.  But,” he continues, getting ready for the big reveal, “I did learn something about our esteemed Captain.” 

No one appears to be perched at the edge of his or her seat; instead, all four of his teammates are looking at Tony like they’re more interested in the morality and ethics of his foray into Steve’s apartment. 

“You’re no fun.  Here it is: Cap only has one thing up in his apartment... And it’s a picture of Bucky Barnes.”  He takes a deep breath, ready to really savor the looks on their faces as they work through it.  “He drew it himself.” 

Tony is prepared for it to take a few minutes to sink in, like it had for him.  It only takes seconds for the four Avengers in front of him to get pensive.  Except Thor, and god, Tony loves Thor.

“Our friend Steven is a talented artist,” he says quizzically.  “What is the significance of displaying his own work on his walls?”

“He must not have any actual pictures,” Natasha beats Tony to the punch.  “Maybe he has some other stuff of Bucky’s,” she says to Tony, turning to face him fully. 

“Uh, unless it’s stashed somewhere besides his dresser, his desk, his closet, or his nightstand, I don’t think so,” Tony says, trailing off when everyone glares at him again. 

“Oh, man,” Clint says. 

Bruce adds, “poor Steve.” 

“You’re all making with the empathizing much quicker than I did,” Tony admits. 

“But why are we meeting?” asks Clint.  Tony claps his hands to get their attention.

“Right, so, we need to find a way to solve this.  Our Captain is emotionally compromised by his loss, true, but we can come up with a better coping solution than sticking up Bucky-doodles on the wall.  American flag décor won’t work,” he says definitively in case someone wants to try that route. 

Natasha takes a sip of her vodka, and holy shit, the glass is nearly empty.  Clint’s is still at least half-full and he’s not hiding his grimace from Tony every time he raises it to his mouth. 

“So we need to help him track down some actual pictures of Bucky?” she asks.

“Or things that were owned by Bucky?” is Clint’s contribution. 

“What about things that just remind him of Bucky?” asks Bruce. 

“Who is Bucky?” Thor wants to know.  And, oh yeah, Thor hasn’t really grown up with stories of Cap-and-Bucky, has he?  Clint and Bruce tell the story and Thor is greatly impressed to learn that Steve has a noble brother-in-arms. 

“On Asgard, we commemorate our fallen brothers by enshrining their favorite weapons in places of honor,” he says when he understands enough of the story to actually be helpful. 

“Yes, a shrine!  Now we’re thinking,” Tony says as he waves his glass in Thor’s direction. 

“I like this weapon idea,” Natasha tells the room as she refills her own drink.  Clint sighs and abandons his on the coffee table, clearly giving up in the face of her Russian liver.  “But a shrine is tacky.” 

“A shrine is perfect.  A Bucky Barnes shrine,” Tony says happily.  There, he’s solved the problem without help from Pepper.  She’ll doubtlessly be impressed. 

“When you say ‘shrine,’ what exactly are you picturing?” Bruce asks nervously. 

“Like, a big picture, and lights, and candles.  Maybe some food for any deities Cap wants to invoke.”  Drawing on any previous and possibly flawed knowledge he can find in his head about shrines, Tony doesn’t get more than a sentence in before a chorus of voices are telling him “No, Tony.” 

“Absolutely not.  Steve’s not tacky,” Natasha shuts him down.  “We can just get him a few things to keep around the apartment and give him a physical connection to the memories.” 

“So a Bucky Barnes memorial?” Bruce asks.  To Tony’s ears, it still sounds like a damn shrine, which is an awesome idea by the way. 

“I’m all for that,” Clint tells them.  “Let’s start looking for some Bucky Barnes memorabilia.  How hard can it be to find with a SHIELD salary and an artificial intelligence who can scour eBay day and night?”

 

As it turns out, Clint learns, it’s really fucking hard to find authentic Bucky Barnes shit.  ‘Collectors’ have snapped up most of the stuff that the museums were too slow to find, plus Bucky didn’t really have the money to invest in the 1940s shit that really stood the test of time.

Clint looks at an iron from 1932 on an antiques website, has a weird moment of disorientation when he realizes that his friend and this iron are contemporaries, and then wonders if he can fool Cap into thinking that Bucky had once owned this iron. 

He floats the idea to Natasha, who asks him, “Are you stupid?” before strapping on a Kevlar vest and heading out for the night. 

Clint tries to feel offended, then accepts that the idea may not be his brightest.

He thinks of who among his acquaintances is good at finding shit, and comes up with a grand total of his ex-wife.  This is probably not a good option, but Clint is out of ideas. 

“Hey, Bobbi, it’s Clint,” he says when she picks up after the third ring. 

“I do have caller ID,” she tells him dryly.  “What do you want, Clint?”

“I need some ideas for how to find something for a friend.  Something special, pretty rare I guess, that’s hard to find even online.” 

“I have no interest in helping you shop for your girlfriends.  Goodbye, Clint,” she says as he hangs up. 

He redials.

“It’s for Captain America,” he tells her when she picks up again. 

“What?”

“The thing, the present.  It’s for Captain America.  I need help.”

“Why are you looking for a present for Captain America?”  He somehow feels like it would betray Steve’s trust to share the detail about the lone, hand-drawn picture.  Even though Steve hasn’t actually told Clint about it, and it’s all second-hand from Tony’s snooping. 

Speaking of the snooping, Clint is really hoping Tony will try the same shit with Natasha.  That will make for good entertainment. 

“It’s a long story.  Just- I need to find something that belonged to Bucky Barnes.  There’s not a lot of it, and it’s damn near impossible to verify.”

“I’m not really an expert in where to find Great Depression-era things,” Bobbi tells him, but Clint can tell that she doesn’t hate the idea. 

“Well, you’re certainly an expert in shopping.  My credit card is still recovering,” he jokes. 

“I’m not going to help you if you tell lame divorce jokes, Barton.”

In the end, Bobbi does agree to help.  She puts out “feelers,” which makes Clint think of tentacles, into several antiquing and collecting communities.  A week later, however, Clint has nothing. 

“Okay, let’s try a new approach,” Bobbi suggests.  “You’re going to need to go to the library for this one.” 

“Can I not?” Clint half-begs. 

“Find out all the addresses Bucky Barnes had from, like, age ten and up.  You might even have to ask Steve for this; I don’t really know how you’re going to do that without giving yourself away, though.” 

In the end, after a few fruitless searches for Bucky’s enlistment information online, Clint tells Steve that his ex-wife is obsessed with Bucky Barnes and wants primary source information.  Steve crinkles his forehead as he writes down a few addresses, probably long gone, on a notepad he keeps on his kitchen counter. 

When he gives the addresses to Bobbi, he’s mum on how he asked Steve for them. 

“Okay, so most of these buildings have been torn down, but we can still figure out where they were,” she says after spending a few minutes with the addresses and her smartphone.  “That’s your next task.  Mark all of these points on a map of Brooklyn and then google ‘pawn shops, Brooklyn, 1930s.’  Mark those points too.” 

Clint had _definitely_ not predicted there would be so much homework involved in cheering Steve up. 

He finally completes Bobbi’s herculean task and he finds that there are or were several pawnshops on the blocks where Bucky (and sometimes Steve) used to live.  Bobbi does the easy part of the research, discovering that two of the shops are still operating, and they take an awkward trip to Brooklyn. 

“Hi, I’m looking into some family heirlooms that were pawned here in the 30s or 40s,” she says with a flirty smile to the balding proprietor.  “Do your records go back that far?”

“Paper records do,” the man says, transfixed by how long and shiny her hair is.  Clint totally gets it. 

“Okay, great, we’re looking for the last name ‘Barnes,’” he cuts in.  The man snorts. 

“We ain’t got nothing owned by Bucky Barnes.  Plenty have checked,” he says with a shake of his head.  It’s unclear if he thinks the fuss is unwarranted or if he’s judging Clint and Bobbi for only showing up now. 

“What about George Barnes?” Bobbi asks him, looking discretely at the notes she’s typed up on her BlackBerry. 

The man sends a gaunt teenage boy to look at the records, but he can’t find anything.  Clint is truly discouraged by this point and ready to revert to the iron plan. 

“Typical,” Bobbi says with a shake of her head and a smile as Clint dutifully follows her to the next pawn shop.  “Giving up after the first try.”

“I thought you said no divorce jokes,” Clint argues with a pout. 

“Do you hear me laughing?” she asks, still smiling enough that it’s not a fight.  Clint thinks.  Clint hopes. 

At the next shop, the dialogue goes basically the same way.  The shop manager laughs at their request for something belonging to Bucky Barnes, but when Bobbi mentions George Barnes, the manager actually goes to check and comes back with news. 

“We had a watch pawned by a George Barnes in 1929.  Sold to Jacob Newell in 1931.”

They look up Jacob Newell and learn that he had one child (a son) who had one child (another son) who had one child (yet another son).  It’s laughably easy to trace him with the SHIELD database at their fingertips, and soon, Clint is emailing the great-grandkid with a fake story about being a watch repairman and wanting to check in on the family heirloom watch.

The great-grandkid, Trevor, meets Clint at a coffee shop in Chicago the next time his awesome Hawkeye business takes him to the middle of the country.

“So, like, is it valuable?” Trevor asks without bothering to stifle his enthusiasm.   “Because as far as I knew, it was this junky old pocket watch that’s been in the family forever.  I obviously don’t wear it or anything.  Haven’t looked at it in over a year.” 

Clint cuts to the chase and shows his Avengers ID. 

“Look, man, the watch might have belonged to Bucky Barnes before grandpappy got his hands on it.” 

Trevor’s eyes go wide.

“ _The_ Bucky Barnes?” he asks.  Clint can practically see his pupils morphing into dollar signs, so he heads the guy off. 

“Well, his dad, technically.  I’ll give you two grand for the watch.”

“If it was actually owned by Bucky Barnes, it’s worth way more than that,” Trevor says shrewdly.  Dammit, why does this guy have to be relatively intelligent?

“It probably is, but if you sell to anyone else, they’re going to put it in a ‘private collection,’” Clint says, physically making air quotes to demonstrate his point.  “If you sell it to me, I’m going to give it to Captain America.  Give him a piece of the friend he lost all those years ago.” 

Clint’s laying it on a little thick, but the dollar signs give way to stars.  Honestly, who wouldn’t want to do something nice for Captain America?  Terrorists, that’s who, Clint decides. 

“Um, okay.  I guess I could part with the watch… for four grand.”  Clint scowls and writes the check. 

When he gets the watch, he has no way to tell if it’s actually been owned by a member of the Barnes family.  He figures the odds are way better than those of the iron, however, so he polishes it up as best as he can and gives it to Steve at a team meeting. 

“Hey, Cap, I came across this and thought you might like to have it,” Clint tells him, shooting glares at his fellow Avengers because no one’s contributed to the Bucky Barnes ‘memorial’ yet; without context, Clint looks weird giving a random, hella heartfelt gift. 

He pushes the watch across Tony’s kitchen table that’s doubling as a conference table at the moment and Steve blinks at the watch. 

“Um, okay, thank you,” he says as he picks up the scarred metal and dragging chain.  He pokes at it for a minute, then his mouth falls open. 

“Where did you get this?”

“Just came across it,” Clint says nonchalantly, not owning up to the month-long hunt, with his ex-wife of all people, for the damn thing.  “Was told it might have been owned by-”

“George Barnes,” Steve interrupts him, still staring at the watch with open adulation.  “Bucky used to steal it and we’d play ‘grown-ups’ with it.  I know because,” and he flips the watch around to show Clint the back.  “We scratched our names into the back with a safety pin and his pop got so mad, so he got this metal buffer but it stripped some of the sheen off.  Exactly in this spot.”

He shows Clint the tiny discoloration like it will lead to automatic recognition in anyone’s eyes.  Clint smiles and nods, feeling like he deserves a pat on the back.  Steve is happy, beaming from ear to ear, and Clint made him look that way.  Oh hell yes; Clint is an awesome friend and teammate. 

“That doesn’t look like a big enough spot to hold names,” Tony says, always overanalyzing and trying to ruin what is clearly the best gift ever.

“Well, part of our names.  S. Rogers and J. B. Barnes,” Steve says distractedly.  He’s running his fingers over the watch in an almost pornographic manner, gaze locked on to the object in a trance.  Remembering days long gone.

“Hmm, well, I guess it can go in the shrine,” Tony muses.  Natasha smacks him and Bruce groans. 

“Shut up, Stark, it’s not a shrine,” Clint tells him. 

“What?” Steve asks dumbly, still staring at the watch in his hands.  Is he going to cry?  Clint hopes not. That would be too emotional even for the investment in this gift. 

“We’re kind of helping you put together a shrine, Cap,” Tony tells him as Natasha pinches really hard.  Clint’s been on the receiving end of those pinches before, and shit,  they are not fun. 

“Not a shrine. Just some stuff to help you remember Bucky,” Clint corrects.  

“A memorial to a fallen warrior and brother,” Thor says solemnly.  That gets Steve to look up. 

“Guys…you don’t have to…”

“We want to,” Tony says when Steve trails off.  He braces himself for another attack from Natasha, but she nods in satisfaction at his comment.  He continues after a minute. 

“We noticed that you just had the one picture of Barnes and it’s not like a real picture or anything, just drawn from memory.  So we’re going to help you put together some stuff that reminds you of him.  It’ll be therapeutic.  We want to do it.  It was actually my idea,” he says, and it was probably too much to hope that he could really get through a monologue without veering into egotistical territory. 

It’s okay, though. Stark covered the important stuff, and Steve looks like he’s going to swallow the damn watch so he can be that much closer to it.  Clint considers it a job well done. 

And done he is; it’s time for the other Avengers to get their asses in gear with the memorial project.  Clint can’t be the only one stepping up to the plate around here. He's definitely not up for that responsibility, seeing as he would have to be, well... Responsible. 

 

“I can’t fucking believe Barton scooped me,” Tony complains while Pepper gargles with mouthwash in their ornate master bathroom.  “This was my idea and, of course, Clint has to rush in to be the first to give Cap something for the shrine.  What a fucking douche-hole-ass-hat-ball-licker.”  Pepper quirks an eyebrow at his choice of language as she swishes and then spits out the bright-blue liquid. 

“How long did it take him to find the watch and give it to Cap?” she asks as she fills a glass with about an inch of water and then proceeds to swish with that too.  Damn, Tony’s never really observed Pepper’s oral hygiene routine before, but it’s very intricate. 

“Like, a month,” Tony tells her.  “I seriously can’t believe him.”

“Okay, Tony, a month?  You had plenty of time.  You all had plenty of time.  Clint didn’t ‘scoop’ you so much as everyone else dropped the damn ball.  Whatever happened to trying to do something nice for Steve?” 

She pulls a piece of floss from the little box and Tony decides he’s seen enough.  He walks back into their bedroom and flops down on the four-poster bed, pitching his voice so she can still hear it while she extracts every tiny morsel of food from her teeth. 

“We are doing something nice for Steve!  It’s not my fault that Barton picked the easiest possible solution.  Bucky’s dad’s pocket watch. Give me a fucking break.”

“You’re being unreasonable,” her voice is slightly muffled.  “I know for a fact that watch wasn’t easy to track down.  Plus,  it’s not like you’ve been working day and night on your own present.”  She comes out of the bathroom smelling minty. 

“Umm, not to completely shut you down, Pep, but you’re so wrong.  I have been working diligently, tirelessly, indefatigably-”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really,” he ignores her smirk.  “I know exactly where my contribution to the shrine is and I’ve been working on it since the day I proposed this brilliant plan.”

“Bruce specifically told me that it’s not a shrine; it’s just a collection of objects for Steve’s apartment.  They technically don’t even have to be displayed.  You still haven’t given up on the decoration thing, have you?” 

Tony closes his eyes and tries to be patient with Pepper.  He loves her dearly, but sometimes, she really just doesn’t get it. 

“Obviously, it’s a fucking shrine.  What else is a shrine if not a collection of objects with sentimental value exhibited on one’s walls in individual shelving units?”

“Again, I don’t think they’re going to be-wait a minute,” she narrows her eyes at him.  “Let’s talk about how you display your suits.” 

Tony would rather not, so he escapes to his lab.  He hadn’t planned on sleeping for at least a few more hours anyway. 

“J.A.R.V.I.S., update me on the status of our special project,” Tony tosses out to the ceiling as he flips on the lab’s lights.  Dum-E and You look up guiltily from whatever the fuck they’re doing by the wall, and Tony ignores them.

“Very good, sir,” the AI replies crisply before displaying a holographic projection of an intricate chart.  “Shall I add to the existing data?”

“Can’t hurt,” Tony tells him.  He sits in his chair and almost slips to the floor; getting back up, he sees that someone has left an oily rag on the seat of his expensive roll-y chair, so now both the chair (and his jeans) are filthy. 

“Okay, who did this?” he asks the ‘bots wearily.  Dum-E tries to turn and face the wall, which results in him smashing his claw-face-thingy into the wall while You lowers his claw-face-thingy to the ground like a hangdog.  “You’re cleaning this up, You,” he says threateningly as he steps out of his pants and leaves them lying on the table.

It certainly won’t be the first time he’s gotten his clothing covered in grease or fuel or maybe the teensiest bit of blood. 

“Okay, I’m ready, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” he tells his only artificial intelligence to truly live up to the name.  “Hit me.” 

“Time and date recorded; Tony Stark, on a scale of 1-100, what is your aversion to entering into Stark Mansion and retrieving the item required for Operation Shrine?” 

“I’m feeling like a 55 right now.  Probably correlated to Barton’s totally selfish need for Cap’s attention.”  J.A.R.V.I.S. adds the data to the graph, and it’s the most inclined score in the display.  “Huh.  Guess I’m nearing a breakthrough.” 

“If I may say, sir, tracking your inclination/aversion to enter your parents’ house and retrieve an item of Bucky Barnes’ from Howard Stark’s possessions does not seem to be yielding any true results.  If indeed the recent spike in inclination is attributable to Barton, and therefore an outlier, then the data trend does not indicate that you’ll make headway anytime soon.” 

Tony closes his eyes and leans against a lab bench.  He hates to admit it, but if the other Avengers are finally making moves on this project, then it’s time for him to do the same.  He’s not really doing anything besides trying to desensitize himself to going back to the mansion by looking at pictures of it and trying to be slightly more proactive about dealing with his memories instead of shoving them into little boxes, then blowing the shit out of them with metaphorical Jerichos. 

“Fine.  Fuck it.  Let’s go now.” 

“It’s one in the morning east coast time, sir.”

“Do you have a point, J.A.R.V.I.S.?  I said I’m going now.  What car should I take?  Do you think Pepper wants to go upstate with me?”  Tony’s already moving out of the lab and snapping his fingers at the ‘bots.  “Butterfingers, you’re in charge,” he calls over his shoulder.  “Keep these two in line.” 

“Might I suggest pants, sir?” J.A.R.V.I.S. asks pleasantly when Tony is almost at his garage.  “Also, keys and a cell phone.  If you’re inclined.” 

Tony retrieves pants, keys, his phone and his wallet.  He debates about waking Pepper up, but decides that he doesn’t want her to see his fucking daddy issues on full display, so he lets her sleep.  J.A.R.V.I.S. also suggest that Ms. Potts may not appreciate being woken out of a full sleep to go on a spontaneous road trip in the middle of the night, so Tony pretends that that’s why he’s going alone. 

He picks the Ferrari, probably unconsciously because Howard had thought them ostentatious, and he’s going to be better equipped to handle this if he goes in with a fuck-Howard attitude primed and ready. 

Flying down the dark, practically deserted highway as it gets later and later, Tony fights the urge to turn around several times.  He plays with the idea of sending someone to go through his father’s things; sending Pepper even, if she’s not too busy running his company and organizing his life.  But the thought of sending an employee to rifle through his Father’s things when he himself barely knows what’s there is shameful, and the idea of admitting this weakness to Pepper even more so. 

“J.A.R.V.I.S., read me a list of everything shitty my father ever did,” he asks as he approaches the upstate New York town where his ancestral home happens to be located.

“Shall I start pre or post Manhattan project?” Car-J.A.R.V.I.S. says and Tony doesn’t answer.  He can’t wait for this to be over. 

When he pulls up in front of the mansion, all the windows are dark.  He’d expected it; it’s three AM nearly, but it makes the place look completely abandoned and tomb-like.  Tony knows there’s at least a few caretakers running about the place and imbuing it with as much life as it’s going to get while Tony’s the owner. 

Because it’s Howard’s house, there’s no key, just a thumbprint scanner on the doorknocker.  Tony submits to it half-hoping that the house will reject him, and when the door swings open, he sighs and steps inside. 

“We’re at about a 99.7 right now, just FYI, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” he says to the air.  Sometimes he forgets when J.A.R.V.I.S. can’t actually hear him; sometimes he forgets that he’s not in the suit and is instead completely exposed and alone.  “Let’s fucking do this and get it over with.” 

He treads up the lushly-carpeted stairs with a confidence he doesn’t feel, and when he gets to Howard’s west study, he again submits his thumb for a scan. 

The inside of the west study, where Howard always kept his Captain America crap, is dusty.  Tony wonders if any of the housekeepers who clean most of the mansion have access to this room; it’s hard to tell with Howard.  Tony could always update the security programming, but he likes that certain parts of his father get to stay locked away from light and air. 

This is certainly one of them.  Tony was weaned on stories of Cap saving the day, and he’s got nothing but respect for the living, breathing Captain, but he’s always hated and envied his father’s obsession over the frozen hero.  It grates that Howard had been right, had been possibly the only one not to lose faith that Steve was out there somewhere in the ocean, just waiting to be brought back and wound up. 

He doesn’t rule out the idea that part of his obsession to help Cap fit into the modern world stems from guilt over how much he’d hated Steve’s effect on his family from the always-distant possibility of finding him. 

Tony pokes around his dad’s shit, mostly case files and weapons prototypes and a few artifacts of Steve’s that Tony honestly doesn’t think he’ll miss.  It’s mostly military gear and maps.  The good stuff, like the shield prototypes, weren’t even stored here.

He finds what he’s looking for when he opens a closet and finds a sealed trunk in the back underneath stacks of files and notebooks.  He drags it out, blows away the dust, and sees the label, “J. B. Barnes.”

He wonders for the first time what he’ll give Steve if the trunk disappoints.  He’s never looked in it; Howard had been an asshole, saying that the only stuff Steve would care about was in that trunk, so Tony just has a general idea of what it contains. 

It’s a pathetic offering at first, when he breaks the lock off after slamming it over and over with a screwdriver.  Sometimes, even when you’re one of the world’s most powerful and precise superheroes, you still have to hit things with a screwdriver. 

The top of the trunk is covered in more old maps, pieces of paper with random numbers and words on them, and a few dirty comic books.  Dirty, as in, ‘old man’ dirty.

“Yowza,” he says as he flips through one of them.  Which is what he’s pretty sure you’re supposed to say in the old days when you come across a drawing of a woman wearing garters and bending over like that.  “Gee whiz.” 

He discards the comics and gets to the next layer of the trunk.  Playing cards that literally fall apart in his hands, pencil stubs, a pocket knife that gets Tony really excited before he sees the name “J. Morita” etched into the surface. 

This is all junk.  Why in the hell had his dad told him Steve would give a shit about this trunk? 

He thinks he’s found something wrapped in cloth a moment later, and he pulls the wrapping away only to discover that it’s something in and of itself; it’s a dark blue, relatively lightweight coat. 

“Jackpot,” he whispers as he unfolds the coat and looks at it, really looks at it.  It’s dark blue with copper buttons.  There’s a faded insignia on the left sleeve. 

Holiest of shits, he has Bucky Barnes’ coat.  The iconic coat that’s in every comic, painting, and movie representation of the fallen Commando and now it’s Tony’s.  Well, temporarily Tony’s, until he passes it along to Steve. 

Why hadn’t he been wearing this when he fell?  Did he have more than one?  Tony fingers at the material and realizes that it’s not a coat meant for harsh weather.  A summer coat, maybe?  Whatever, Steve will tell him. 

He refolds the coat respectfully and looks into the bottom of the trunk to see if anything remains.  A generic Bible that looks like it’s never been opened, a bunch of very dead twigs and leaves, and some sort of old-timey military lantern.  Well damn, had Howard just upended Bucky’s pack into the trunk and locked it up?  Why the fuck is there foliage in here? 

He tosses everything but the coat back into the trunk and goes to put it away.  Then, on the off-chance that one of the scraps of paper or the borrowed knife or even the fucking twigs has meaning to Steve, he picks up the trunk by one handle and drags it to his convertible outside. 

“Everything go alright, sir?” J.A.R.V.I.S. asks politely as Tony hefts his finds into the passenger seat and then slides across the hood dramatically.  Now that he’s dealt with the house, and he doesn’t have any reason to come back here for a long-ass time, he feels light. 

“Everything’s peachy,” he says, and then frowns as he starts the car.  “Well, not counting the fact that my own employees have no idea someone just broke into my house and stole a very important historical artifact.  Should I be worried about that?” 

“It’s possible that they were unaware due to the fact of it being their employer, therefore a man with total access to the house and its security system, breaking in.” 

“Still feels unsafe,” Tony fires back.   “Yet another reason not to visit.”  He guns the engine and speeds off into the night.  When he gets back to the tower, he slips into bed beside Pepper and cuddles up to her for a whole thirty minutes before her alarm goes off. 

“When did you come to bed?” she asks with an adorable yawn.  Her breath still smells clean and minty. 

“Very recently,” he admits.  “But I took care of Steve’s thing.”  She smiles and kisses him, and he falls asleep. 

Two days later, the Avengers are assembled in Tony’s rec room again for movie night.  Tony very specifically wants to give the coat to Steve in front of Barton so that the archer can enjoy the feeling of knowing Tony’s contribution to the shrine is better than a rusty old watch that Bucky probably played with, like, three times. 

“So, Cap, I have something for you,” he says when the credits roll on _Inception_. 

“I think I’m still digesting the movie, Tony,” Steve admits. 

“Sometimes it helps to draw a diagram of the timeline.”  Natasha is already moving to get paper. 

Tony briefly protests and then ends up joining in.  Thirty minutes later, they’ve lined up the three interlocking timelines and explained everything several times to Thor. 

“Okay, Cap, I have something for you,” Tony tries again.  This time Steve looks at him and crinkles his forehead. 

“Okay,” he says, sounding confused.  Then his whole face brightens.  “Uh, is it something else like the watch?  Which you guys really don’t have to do,” he says, resting his fingers on his pants pocket where he’s probably got the precious stashed away safely. 

“Better than the watch.”  Tony beams.  “From the personal Stark collection.”  Steve looks excited, but Clint rolls his eyes. 

“Are you kidding?  That’s cheating.” 

“I’ll have you know that I had to work through a plethora of daddy issues to get this, Barton.”

“Well, I had to work through a…lot of ex-wife issues to get the watch.” 

“Read a book, Barton, it’ll do wonders for your vocabulary,” Tony says as he goes into the kitchen to get the trunk and brings it back to the rec room. 

“Open up, Cap.”  He’s all tingly with anticipation for the reveal of his hard-won gift. 

Steve opens the trunk and sees the shitty collection of twigs and generic army stuff.  His eyes go wide anyway. 

“Oh, wow, Tony.”  He lifts out the funky lantern and Morita’s knife.  “This is actually Bucky’s stuff from the war.”  He shuffles around and picks up one of the random leaves.  “He had the strangest obsession with the trees wherever we were sent.” 

Steve looks like he’s going to cry, or hug Tony, or both.  Tony’s a little confused.  Steve likes the flotsam and jetsam in Bucky’s trunk; Tony had wanted to fake him out and then reveal the coat.  

“Thank you, Tony.  I really appreciate this.  I know it wasn’t easy for you to-”

“Fuck it, I’ll be right back.”  He walks out on Cap mid-thank you, which is probably illegal, and returns with the coat folded nicely (by Pepper) into a garment box. 

“This is the real shrine thing,” he says as he hands the box over. 

“It’s not a damn shrine, Tony,” Natasha snaps. 

Steve opens the box and makes a noise like a stepped-on puppy.  “Oh my god.”  He’s dropping the box to the floor and holding the coat up to the light like it will somehow show a watermark and prove its authenticity.

Tony waggles his eyebrows at Clint. 

“It’s not a competition, Tony,” Bruce informs him.

“That’s because I’m winning the shrine.”

“Still not a shrine,” Bruce tells him. 

Steve is actually sniffing the coat now, and Tony is slightly concerned.  He’d debated getting the thing dry-cleaned, but he wasn’t sure if that would be good or bad for fabric which hasn’t been washed in 70 years. 

“This is part of his uniform,” Steve says.  He’s choked up and he holds the coat against his chest. 

“Thank you, Tony.  Seriously, you can’t know how much this means.  Thank you.”  He goes back to staring intently at the coat, which is far better than staring intently at the watch, and Tony smirks. 

“Bet he looked real sharp in that, Cap,” he preens.  Steve nods. 

“You have no idea,” he says, sounding breathy, to which Tony arches an eyebrow.  He catches Clint giving him an identical, quizzical look. 

Well, that’s kind of an odd level of appreciation for how good your male best friend looks in uniform, but okay. 

Tony’s gift is the best, and that’s all that matters. 

 

After Tony makes the memorial project a competition (and why is Bruce surprised?  Everything becomes a competition with Tony sooner or later), Bruce has a brief period of panic.

Clint tracked down Bucky’s dad’s pawned watch.  Tony tracked down Bucky’s light coat from fucking World War II. 

There is simply no way that Bruce is going to match their finds.  Once he accepts it, he calms down. 

He spends a few hours browsing for anything related to Bucky Barnes online.  He’s not looking for authentic, Bucky-touched-this, Bucky-sneezed-on-this stuff; he’s just getting a sense for his options. 

He debates several books about Captain America which discuss Bucky Barnes in various amounts of detail, a handful of movies and TV programs which feature Bucky, and some Bucky-themed toys.  He rules out the action figures because the little Bucky-faces are blurry and nondescript, but he has positive feelings about something called a Bucky Bear. 

Oh, who is Bruce kidding; he’d had a Bucky Bear as a child.  He’d loved his Bucky Bear. 

Bruce drops in on Steve one rainy afternoon and attempts to suss out Steve’s attitude toward the subject without explicitly asking, ‘So what are your feelings on stuffed bears dressed as your dead best friend?” 

“Hey, Bruce,” Steve tells him as he admits the scientist to his apartment.  “Everything okay?” 

“Fine, fine, everything’s fine.  I just wanted to bring you some tea.  It’s one of my favorite blends from Argentina,” he explains as he hands the mug over. 

Steve looks a little puzzled, but he takes a sip and hums appreciatively. 

“Oh, that’s pretty good.  You want to watch some TV with me for a bit?” 

It’s a good opening to float the idea of the bear and see how Steve reacts.  Also, Bruce realizes as Steve sits at one end of the couch and checks like he’s making sure Bruce has enough room on the other three cushions, no one comes by to just watch TV with Steve, do they? 

“What are we watching?” he asks as he settles in and feels a wave of guilt crash over him.  Everyone on the team likes and respects Steve, including Bruce; they’re working on this big memorial project because they care about Steve enough to want him to acclimate and find some peace over Bucky’s death.  But maybe they’ve been remiss in the little things like stopping by with a cup of tea. 

“19 Kids and Counting.”  Bruce pauses mid-sip. 

“I’m sorry that you know that show exists.”  Steve huffs a laugh. 

“I found it a few days ago and I like it.  I like shows about ordinary Americans.  I still don’t really have a feel for how people live nowadays – I get that the way we live in the tower isn’t actually the norm.” 

“This is not a cross-section of America, I assure you,” Bruce says, pointing to the plasma screen.  “And I can’t believe that you like reality television.  No one at SHIELD is going to believe this.”  He shakes his head briefly and smirks. 

“They seem more realistic than some other people on TV.  I don’t really care for the Kardashians,” Steve says off-handedly. 

This time Bruce actually sputters on his tea. 

“I somehow feel the need to apologize for my century,” he tells Steve when he regains his composure.  Steve laughs at him, easy and deep, and Bruce really wants to get him something nice for the Bucky shr…a nice Bucky thing. 

Speaking of the Bucky project, he runs his eyes over the bare walls of the apartment as he and Steve fall into easy conversation about television.  He doesn’t see any evidence of the watch, the coat, or the other junk that Tony had gifted to Steve. 

“I’m not much of a decorator,” Steve tells him as he sees where Bruce’s eyes are skimming.  “Tony’s already informed me that that’s considered a character flaw nowadays.” 

“Oh, it’s totally fine,” Bruce tells him as he makes a mental note to scold Tony later.  “Tony really shouldn’t say stuff like that.  Just ignore him; we all do.” 

“Don’t worry.  I’m not taking it personally.”  Steve stands up and heads toward an open door.  “I just never had money to decorate when I was younger.  Food or decorations?  It was always going to be food.  But Bucky’s stuff is mostly in here if you want to come see it.”  He sounds childishly eager to show off his Barnes collection, so Bruce follows him into his bedroom. 

“Coat’s in the closet; I should probably get one of those big dry-cleaning bags to keep it in to preserve it, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.  I just like being able to see it hanging there.”  The coat doesn’t even look that out-of-place hung next to Steve’s carefully-pressed slacks and button-down shirts.  Bruce awkwardly stares into Steve’s closet and admires it.

“And the watch is on my bureau.  Fun fact; it doesn’t actually tell time anymore.  Clint just set the hands before he gave it to me.”  Steve doesn’t sound upset by it, and, because the thing is broken, Bruce feels like it’s okay to pick the watch up and look at it in his palm.

“It’s really cool-looking,” he admits.  Steve smiles at the praise like Bruce is complimenting his child. 

“Yeah, isn’t it?” 

Steve leads them out of the bedroom, and points to the bookshelf in his living room. 

“Most of the other stuff is on that shelf.  I sent the knife to Morita’s granddaughter, and I donated the Bible.  Bucky never cracked the thing once he saw what war was really like.” 

It’s a little odd that Steve’s given away things that belonged to Bucky, but maybe that’s telling.  Maybe it’s not enough to have been owned by Bucky; maybe, to truly make the memorial, it has to be something that he cared about.  This makes Bucky Bear look woefully inadequate. 

“What’d you do with the foliage?” Bruce asks.  Steve groans and half rolls his eyes. 

“Threw them to the wind.  What a…Darcy said the term now is a 'derp.'  I can’t believe he had those mixed in with his stuff and Howard didn’t clean them out.” 

This is actually a sign that Steve is grieving healthily; had he plastered the dried, dead leaves from 1944 to his wall, Bruce would have been worried. 

“Kept the pencils and the lantern; I can still us those.  The paper and stuff that has his handwriting on it is just in my desk drawer.”  A blush quickly rises and falls on Steve’s cheeks.  So apparently he did keep something basically useless after all.

“Well, it’s all really nice.  I’m glad you have some of his stuff now; everyone deserves to have some physical reminder of the people they’ve lost.”  He thinks of a single earring of Betty’s, one that she’d left at his place long ago, that he keeps in his wallet.  

“I agree.  It makes me smile when I see his stuff around here.”  Steve does smile when he says it, and it has the expected elements of sadness, but it’s also a very soft and fond.  It again brushes an image of Betty against Bruce’s mind. 

“So did they tell you about Bucky Bears?” Bruce says abruptly, shaken by that smile and the effect it’s having on his memories.

Steve wrinkles his brow. 

“What’s a Bucky Bear?” he says as he resituates himself in front of the television and reaches for his tea. 

“It’s a toy, like, a teddy bear.  It’s dressed up as Bucky Barnes, though.”  Steve frowns but looks intrigued.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why is it dressed up like Bucky?”

“Because it’s a Bucky Bear.  I don’t know; someone decided that kids liked Bucky, so they made a toy after him?”

“Sounds cute,” Steve admits.  “Bucky would have hated it.” 

Well, there goes Bruce’s best idea.  Now that he knows it has to be something Bucky cared about, he can’t give Steve something they both know Bucky wouldn’t like. 

“How do you know?” Bruce asks, because he’s not going to just up and leave even though Steve’s shot his idea down. 

“He hated all that stuff.  Comics, radio shows, decoder rings.  Anything that depicted him like a kid sidekick; and it always did, for some reason.  I have no idea why.  Maybe they thought two heroes was too many?”

“Maybe,” Bruce agrees loosely.  “Or maybe they wanted to really pitch that stuff to the kids.”

“Makes sense.”  Steve shrugs.  “Anyway, he used to get so mad.  Seriously, those comics.  They were embarrassing enough for me, but they made him look like he was thirteen.”  A wicked grin crosses Steve’s face.  “He used to write into the comic editors all the time, telling them he was the real Bucky Barnes and demanding that his story be changed.  He’d get in such a fit over it.  It was hilarious.”  Steve laughs and then catches himself, looking contrite. 

Bruce just grins.  He’s got an idea for the memorial now. 

“Friends are there to be laughed at,” he assures Steve.  “Why do you think I’m friends with Tony?” 

That night, Bruce asks J.A.R.V.I.S. for a favor. 

“J.A.R.V.I.S., can you do a little comic recon for me?” he asks very politely.  Even though he knows it isn’t necessary, he still thinks that Tony can be too harsh with his inventions. 

“I would be happy to, sir.  Can you please elaborate what it is you wish for me to do?”

“I’m looking for an old Captain America comic from the 1940s.  I don’t which comic, or if it even exists, but I want to see if Bucky Barnes ever got a letter printed.”  J.A.R.V.I.S. assures Bruce that he’ll be diligent about peeking through many scans and summaries. Bruce smiles as he makes himself his 8th cup of tea and goes to check on his experiments. 

If all goes well with J.A.R.V.I.S., he might be able to track down something that Bucky Barnes had clearly cared about, even if he never owned it. 

J.A.R.V.I.S. tells him the next morning that he didn’t find anything matching Bruce’s description, and Bruce’s smile falters. 

“Thanks for trying, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” he says wearily.  Well, that didn’t work; what now? 

“Sir, I have been able to locate a letters page with information related to your original request, though not directly matching it.” 

“What’d you find?”  He’s curious, but he’s already wracking his brain to think of a new idea. 

“I was able to locate a letters page from late 1943 with a letter from a J. B. Rogers.  I wasn’t sure if it was relevant to your purposes, but the name aroused my curiosity.”  Bruce’s eyes widen. 

“Show me the letter.” 

J.A.R.V.I.S. brings up a PDF scan of the original letters page, faded with age and smudged by many fingers.  He located his glasses in the mess on his desk and leans forward to read the letter.

“Dear Marvel,” he mutters aloud.  “I am a long-time fan of Bucky Barnes, but I want to know why you keep making him a teenage boy.  Everyone who’s seen real footage of Captain America knows that Bucky is twenty-three.  He’s a real dashing devil, too.  I’m sick of him looking like a kid following after Captain America and getting into trouble.  Cap’s the trouble maker and Bucky keeps him safe. Signed, J. B. Rogers.” 

Bruce sits back in his chair. 

“That’s good, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” he says after a minute.  “That was very smart of you to extend the parameters of your search.” 

“Thank you, sir.  It’s a pleasure to assist with Captain Rogers’ project.  I believe that he will like this gift very much.” 

That reminds Bruce that he actually has to track down this comic book now.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., do you think you could send me a list of places where I can get this specific comic book from?”

“Certainly, sir.  Are you interested only in mint-condition copies, or are you able to expand your search to the more easily locatable, and affordable, copies?” 

Bruce thinks of Bucky’s jacket hanging in Steve’s closet, sans plastic sleeve, so that Steve can look at it and touch it when he wants. 

“Any copy is fine, J.A.R.V.I.S..  As long as it’s still readable.” 

Bruce learns about a copy for sale at a comic shop downtown, and he walks into the store bracing himself to be recognized.  While he isn’t green or growling right at the moment, he’s done enough press events with the Avengers to be semi-recognizable among people who follow super heroes.

Like, he’s just going out on a limb here, the patrons of a comic shop. 

“Uhh, hi,” he tells the young lady working at the counter.  Her nose is pierced and she looks bored by Bruce’s instinctive shyness around strangers.  “I’m looking for an old Captain America comic.  I saw online that you might have it.” 

“Which one?”  Bruce pulls a sticky note out of his pocket on which he’s written the name and number of the comic he wants.  He waits at the counter while she pulls it from the fancy glass case where they apparently keep the rare comic books, and while she’s gone, Bruce notices another man lingering near the front of the store. 

“I think she’ll be right back,” he says politely.  The man gives him a nasty look that takes Bruce aback. 

“Did I hear you say you’re looking for Captain America 16?” 

“Um, yes.  I’m buying a copy for a friend.”  The man steps forward to place something small and plastic on the counter; Bruce sees that it’s a credit card.

“I’ll be buying the Cap 16.  I’ve been saving up to buy all the old Cap comics here, and I can’t have a hole in my collection.” 

“Uhh…” Bruce says intelligently, then he opens his own wallet and puts his own credit card on the counter.

“Well, I actually asked about it first.  But I think there’s a collector in town who might sell, if you want his name.”  The man knocks Bruce’s card off the counter and Bruce feels the stirrings of the Hulk inside of him. 

“Then go buy it from the collector,” the man says with a glare.  “I’m on issue 12 and I’m going to buy all of the old war comics in the case.” 

The girl returns with the comic and blinks at them.  

“Sorry, is there a problem?” 

Bruce opens his mouth to ask her to get his card where it fell behind the counter, when the man pushes in front of him. 

“Cassandra, I’ve been coming here for years.  I know that means a lot to this store, so please let me buy the comic.” 

“Sure, Eddie,” she says.  She turns to Bruce and he feels the anger continue to build in his gut.  “Sorry, dude, this is on hold for someone.” 

“You literally just put it ‘on hold,’” Bruce tells her, unimpressed.  “I heard him talk to you; I was standing right here.  You just put that on hold and it’s not fair.” 

“Sorry, dude,” she says again.  “Customer loyalty beats random strangers off the street any day.”  Bruce looks three feet to his left where he sees an advertisement for the latest Avengers-related comic book.  More to the point, he sees a picture of his green alter-ego towering above a very tiny-waisted, suggestively-posed Black Widow. 

 “I’m not really a random stranger on the street,” he says and then he shows the girl his Avengers ID. 

“Yeah, right,” she says as she looks at the picture.  “My friend has one of these.  They’re really popular.  Get a life, mister; pretending to be an Avenger at your age isn’t cool.” 

He feels it arch up his spine; a band of energy and accompanying rage that signifies the first part of the transition.  He struggles to hold on to control because he’ll be damned if these two punks are going to break him after months of yoga, yoga and more yoga. 

“Hulk want to buy comic book!” he yells as he sees his forearms start to bulge and a green film slides over his eyes.  The man, Eddie, jumps backwards and the girl’s jaw drops. 

“Holy shit,” she says.  Bruce struggles to quell the anger in his core as his buttons start to pop.  ‘Go back, go back,’ he mentally chants as his muscles begin to reshape themselves. 

“You can have it!” Eddie is yelling.  Bruce takes deep, calming breaths until the green haze clears entirely. 

He asks Cassandra to pick up his credit card, and as she’s ringing him up, she asks if they can put “The Hulk shops here” on their promotional materials. 

“Sure, go ahead,” Bruce tells her, a little embarrassed for almost losing his cool over rude treatment in a comic shop.  Seriously, he deals with Tony on a daily basis and this is what almost breaks him. 

“Bye, Mr. Hulk!” Cassandra waves to him as he leaves.  The other patrons don’t look up from their cell phones, where they’re filming his exit. 

Fury mentions the incident at a team meeting that evening.

“And I feel the need to address why Doctor Banner nearly Hulked out in a Manhattan comic book store today.”  Bruce groans.  “It’s all over YouTube.  My nephew sent me the link to a very high-quality video.”

“You have a nephew?” Tony asks.

“What were you doing in a comic shop, Doc?” Clint asks as Natasha arches an eyebrow.  Steve just looks supportively at Bruce. 

He sighs and takes the comic out of his briefcase. 

“Here, Steve.  I didn’t get a chance to, well, do anything with it.”  Steve takes the comic from him, slips it out of the plastic sleeve and flips through the pages.  It’s not in pristine condition, but it’s not falling apart, either, so the pages turn easily. 

“Thanks, Bruce,” Steve tells him with a smile.  Bruce knows he didn’t get all the way to the letters page. 

“Keep flipping,” he tells Steve.  Then he gets a chill.  He didn’t personally flip to the back of the comic before giving it to Steve; what if it’s the wrong comic?  Or worse, his panic flares up again, what if the letter wasn’t even written by Bucky?  It’s not like every reader of that comic hadn’t known Steve’s full name and at least part of Bucky’s.

His spike of panic is broken by Steve chuckling and smiling even wider. 

“Oh, Buck,” he says fondly as he runs a finger over the letters page.  “I didn’t know they actually ran this.  This is great.  Thanks, Bruce.” 

“What is it?” Tony rolls his chair over to Steve and hooks his head over Steve’s shoulder to see.  Clint does the same thing on Steve’s opposite side. The image is juvenile and sweet. 

“I believe it’s an awesome gift,” Bruce says cockily, briefly caught up in the game now that he’s playing it.  Fury nips that in the bud.

“A gift that caused you to Hulk out in Manhattan?  You already broke Harlem, Doctor Banner.”

“Well, yes, that did happen,” Bruce admits.  He starts to tell the story to Fury and his teammates as Steve returns to the beginning of the comic, opens it, and begins to read. 

 

Thor is deeply pleased by all of the gifts which have been presented to his friend, the Captain, so far. 

The Hawk had given him a token of Barnes’ father.

The Man of Iron had given him Barnes’ battle garments retrieved, Thor understands, after a fierce battle with his inner demons.

The gentle monster had given him a letter written by Barnes to defend his reputation.

All of these gifts please Thor, but they also strike him with a dawning awareness that he is also expected to provide a gift.  Unfamiliar with the gift-procuring customs of Midgard, and still hazy on the legend of the warrior Bucky Barnes, Thor excitedly decides that he must seek out help from his lady.

‘JANE MY LOVE WE MUST SKYPE’ he texts her, followed by thirty emoticons.  It does not produce an immediate response. 

Frustrated, but practicing the art of patience, Thor leaves his quarters and goes to find his friend Bruce. 

Bruce is in his own quarters, but the Captain is there too. 

“Bruce, Steve, it is good to see you both,” Thor greets them. 

“Yes, because it’s been so long,” Bruce says as he holds open the door.  Thor frowns as he walks into Bruce’s quarters.  It can’t be more than an hour since the team last congregated with the one-eyed man, Fury. 

“Am I interrupting?” Thor asks, sitting down on the couch and helping himself to a handful of delicious tortilla chips from the open bag.  The Captain is also sitting and watching something on the television. 

“We’re working on a sitcom project,” Bruce tells him.  “Care to join us?”  Until the lady Jane texts him back, Thor is content to be wherever the chips are.  They watch a group of people talk on screen, and the dialogue is quite funny, but there are no fight scenes or love scenes. 

Thor points this out, and Bruce makes a vaguely rude sound. 

“Have you seen any movies or TV you liked yet?”

“I very much enjoy the works of Quentin Tarantino.” 

“I really liked _Inglorious Basterds_ ,” Steve tells Thor.  “That’s the war I fought in.”  Thor is delighted to hear this. 

“Okay, sorry to run out on you, but I have a gym date with Clint in about five minutes.  Either of you want to come?” Steve asks soon after. 

“Do I look like I work out?” Bruce asks him. 

“I have no need to attend the gym,” says Thor.  He certainly is not trying to brag, but Bruce glares at him anyway.  

“Later, gators,” Steve tosses over his shoulder as he leaves. 

“No, Cap, I didn’t show you _Friends_ so you could pick up 90s catchphrases,” Bruce insists to the closing door.  He turns to Thor once Steve is gone.  “Well, what do you want to watch now that it’s just us?” 

“I simply seek company whilst my Jane is busy.”  Thor crunches on his snack for a few minutes before offering an observation. “This task that we are working on, the task of helping the Captain remember his friend, it is a good thing.”

“I agree with you there, Thor.”

“It brings us closer as a team.  The Captain is spending more time outside his room and more time with us.”  Bruce nods.

“Yeah, he’s been around more lately.  Making time to hang out with me, making time to hang out with Clint.  It’s possible that he’s even spending more time with Tony, although I don’t know why he would voluntarily subject himself to that.” 

“It is a good thing,” Thor repeats.  He muses in his head that he must not break the chain of excellent gifts; he doesn’t know how he’s going to do it, but he can’t disappoint the Captain now that everyone else has made him happier and lighter. 

It is a heavy task for one so clumsy in this Midgardian world as Thor.  Luckily, his phone buzzes. 

“My Jane summons me to Skype!” he says excitedly, thanking Bruce for the company and the food before running back to his own quarters. 

The sight of Jane’s beautiful face on the computer screen fills Thor with love. 

“How pleased I am to look upon you,” he tells her, smiling when she blushes.  “Of all faces, this is the one I like most.” 

“Thor, shut up, I haven’t even showered,” she says with an embarrassed laugh.  “Anyway, did you just want to talk or do you need something specific?” 

Thor wants to learn every detail about the 32 hours that have passed since he last spoke with Jane, but he has a task to complete first. 

“Jane, I need your advice and assistance.  I am tasked with finding a gift for Captain America and I do not know what to look for or where to find it.”  He describes the Shrine project, the gifts that have been given so far, and his own conundrum. 

“Okay, wow, those are really good gifts,” Jane says when he finishes.  “Poor Steve, though.  I think this is a really great idea.  Did Natasha come up with it?”

“No, it was Tony who set this quest in motion.”  She raises an eyebrow. 

“Tony?  Okay, interesting.  He’s always full of surprises.”  She takes a band off her delicate wrist and uses it to bind her hair back.  “So we have to find something with sentimental Bucky Barnes value to Steve while accepting our limitations.  There probably aren’t more watches or coats out there.”

“Alas, I think not,” Thor says sadly. 

“Well, you said this got started because Tony saw a picture of Bucky in Steve’s room?”

“Yes. The picture was hand-drawn, so our friend Steve lacks a true photograph of his friend.”

“That’s perfect, then!”  Thor is puzzled. 

“What is perfect?”

“Everyone thought so big, that no one’s gone the simple route and tracked down a photo of Bucky.  Thor, your genius friends are actually morons!”  Thor does not like to hear his friends insulted, but he considers the idea and finds it excellent. 

“A photograph of Bucky Barnes?”

“Yes, it’s a great idea!  There were a handful taken during the war, and I, uh…” She trails off.  “I might have had a folder with his picture on it at some point.  In junior high.”  Thor feels the stirrings of jealousy and Jane cuts him off.  “Oh my god, don’t make that face.  Everyone had one!  Bucky Barnes is one of our most famous war heroes and it was basically that or the Backstreet Boys!”

Better to choose a folder displaying the visage of a warrior than whatever a backstreet boy is, Thor decides.  Still, Jane’s embarrassment reveals that she thinks Barnes handsome. 

He uses the Google to summon a picture of Barnes and much of his jealousy dissipates.  Truly, the man is handsome; he should not begrudge him female attention when the gods have gifted such tragic beauty. 

“Did he have a woman?” Thor asks Jane. 

“No, he just had Steve.  It’s really sad when you think that they died, like, a week apart, but then Steve came back and Bucky didn’t.” 

Thor finds a picture of the Captain and Barnes standing side-by-side; he recognizes his friend, but what he doesn’t recognize is the look in his eye as he smiles at the darker-haired man next to him. 

“Were they lovers?” he asks Jane.  Her jaw drops and she looks at him in confusion.  “Barnes and the Captain.”

“Uh, no.  They were like brothers,” she tells him.  “I mean, not that some people don’t think, but they weren’t like that.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but they didn’t, they weren’t like that.” 

Thor hears her stammering, but he looks at the closeness between the warriors and thinks of the Theban army in Valhalla. 

“Well, how do I get a photograph that I can hold in my hand,” he says, dropping the matter because Jane’s mind is made up. 

“You can download any picture and upload it to a printing site,” Jane tells him.  “Let’s find a good one.” 

They search the Google for several minutes before Thor finds a picture of Barnes in uniform, standing in front of a tank.  He’s captured from the waist up and he’s unsmiling as he looks directly into the camera.  Thor copies the link and sends it to Jane. 

“I like this one.  It’s not candid, but it looks like him.  I keep finding pictures where his hat obscures his face, but this one is good.” 

Jane looks up printing websites while Thor plays a quick game of Minesweeper. 

“Oh, idea, idea!” she tells him.  “I just found a website that says they can colorize old black and white photographs!  Wouldn’t that be cool!  It would actually look like Bucky Barnes.”

“Yes, we must do that,” Thor says excitedly.  This is going to be a truly spectacular gift. 

“It’s kind of expensive, but I’m going to get the highest quality colorization.  SHIELD pays you, correct?”

“I believe so,” Thor says, going to fetch what Coulson had called his Debit Card.  “Midgardian money is of no consequence.”  Especially because he doesn’t really know how it works, just that he has some. 

A week later, the photograph arrives in an orange envelope with lots of air-filled padding.  It’s heavier than Thor had expected, but that turns out to be because the photograph is already encased in a black, metal frame. 

Jane thinks of everything. 

Thor cannot wait to give his gift to Steve, so he happily runs up the stairs three flights to Steve’s quarters.  Tony and Pepper are already there, playing a game that Thor knows well; Wii bowling. 

“Hey, Thor, awesome, you can play Steve next round,” Tony greets him. 

“I come, not for the Wii bowling, but to bestow a gift upon the Captain for the shrine.”

“It isn’t a shrine, Thor,” Pepper tells him with a smile.  “Please don’t listen to Tony.” 

Thor thrusts the picture toward the Captain because he’s out of patience and Steve holds the frame in two hands to look at it. 

“Wow,” he says after several seconds.  The bowling game has been abandoned and Tony and Pepper are coming to stand next to Steve.  “I didn’t know there were any color pictures.” 

“Please accept this gift from myself and my lady, Jane.  She helped me choose and obtain it,” Thor credits his love. 

“Why didn’t I think of a fucking picture?” Tony grumbles.  Pepper shoots him a look. 

“I think it’s wonderful.  I’ve never seen an actual color picture of Bucky Barnes before,” she says appreciatively.  Thor wonders if Tony will react like he did earlier at the note of admiration in Pepper’s voice, but Tony just nods. 

“Solid gift, Thor.  He’s even wearing the coat that was my gift to-”

“His eyes are blue, not brown,” Steve cuts Tony off.  Thor’s heart metaphorically sinks, both Tony and Pepper look closer at the picture.  “They…must not have known that.  His eyes were pretty dark.  It’s an easy mistake to make.” 

“Captain, I apologize,” Thor says with emotion, but Steve smiles and shakes his head. 

“No, this is great, don’t apologize.  It still looks more like him than anything I’ve seen on the internet.”  He looks around at his living room.  “It’s going on the wall,” he says decisively. 

“Holy shit, it’s going on the wall!” Tony says exuberantly.  “He’s actually putting something on the wall!  We need, like, nails and shit.”

“I have nails,” Steve says as he goes to a drawer in the kitchen area.

“Well, then, we need a hammer.  Hey, Thor, call Mjolnir!”

“No need; I have a hammer,” Steve informs them. 

“Why do you have a hammer and nails, boy scout?”  Steve shrugs as he looks around, seemingly trying to find the perfect place for Thor’s gift of questionable success. 

“They seemed important to have.  I like to be prepared.”

“Steve, how about you put it between the two windows?” Pepper suggests.  Two floor-to-ceiling windows occupy on side of the living room and look over New York, still scarred from the Chitauri attack at the hands of Loki.  There’s a stretch of wall about four-feet wide between the windows. Steve goes over to it and knocks. 

“Okay, what are you doing?” Tony inquires. 

“Looking for a stud.” 

“I think there’s three in this room.”  No one acknowledges Tony’s lame joke.  Steve knocks again and then takes a nail from between his teeth, holds it up to the wall, and hammers it in. 

“Truly, Mjolnir would not be appropriate for this task,” Thor admits as he sees the little taps with which Steve is hitting the nail.  He finishes, sets the hammer down and then holds his hand out to Pepper for the photograph.  

“I like it here,” he says when the photo is hung and they’re all admiring the placement. 

“Yeah, unless you’re up close, you can’t even see the little faux pas with the eyes.”

“Oh, Tony,” Pepper scolds.  “I think it looks wonderful, Steve.  It’s just what this place needed.”  She takes Tony’s hand to pull him out of the room, vaguely protesting, and then waves to Thor.  ‘Let’s go,’ she mouths silently and Thor turns to see Steve still staring at the picture, hands on his hips. 

The three of them silently creep out of the apartment, leaving Steve alone with the image.

 

Now that the boys have taken their turns, Natasha needs to get Steve something for the memorial. 

She hadn’t waited so long because her gift was hard to track down; she simply gave the boys two months to get their acts together because her gift is the best gift. 

A simple internet search reveals that Bucky Barnes had used a semi-automatic scoped M1941 Johnson rifle in the war. 

Natasha has a lot of skills, but tracking down specific guns might just be her favorite skill. 

It takes a grand total of two days to make some calls and locate a barely-used, mint condition M1941 in Boston and she takes the trip in her SHIELD-issued Corvette Stingray.  Money changes hands, she looks over the rifle to make sure it’s in ideal working condition and the scope is intact. 

Which of course means that she has to fire it at least once.  She buys some replacement bullets, just in case Steve wants to do the same thing. 

Natasha and the rifle make their way back to New York, making a slight detour on the way.  The first part of her plan is child’s play, but the second will actually take some wheedling. 

“Stark, I need your help,” she tells him after quietly barging into his lab.  Stark drops a welding torch and nearly sets his foot on fire. 

“Jesus, where’d you come from?! I didn’t even think you were in the state.” 

“I need your help with my present for Steve.  In return, I will owe you one favor at a time of your choosing, up to but not including killing someone for you.”  Tony manages to turn the torch off and summons his adorable little robots over to clean up (read: exacerbate) the mess. 

“You’re not killing someone for me, what?  What do you want?”  She hoists the rifle off her shoulder and lays it gently on a work bench. 

“I need you to customize this baby like your dad did in the forties.” 

Stark stares at the rifle for a moment, and then he laughs at her. 

“Isn’t that something?  Miss-I-already-know-what-I’m-getting-Steve-I’m-just-saving-it-for-last needs my help.”  He throws himself into a chair and rolls for at least a foot before stopping.  “Tough luck, sweetie, I already gave Cap my present.  Thems the breaks.  I couldn’t do it even if I wanted to, Howard’s files are up at the mansion and I’ve already been traumatize-”

She cuts him off by placing several file folders on the lab bench in front of him.  He hesitates in his sentence and then starts to flip through the top file.  It only takes him a second to notice.

“Fuck, did you steal these from my house?”

“If by ‘house,’ you mean the abandoned family mansion you visit only under duress, then yes.”

“You need my finger or the print of one of my staff members to get in!” he complains. 

She gives him an, ‘are you really that dense?’ look. 

“Right, you’re scary, I lost sight of that for a minute.  But I’m still not helping you.”  He continues flipping. 

“I think you are,” she tells him in a sing-song voice. 

“And why do you think that, toots?”  She brings her foot up, lightning-quick, and kicks him in the balls for the pet name. 

“Because.  Open the second file.”  Cupping his groin and looking at her with daggers in his eyes, Tony flips through several more sheets of notes and schematics before opening the second file. 

“Oh.  I hadn’t considered that adjustment to the rifle.”  She sees the gears in his brain start to turn.  “Kinda sucks that I’m not a weapons designer anymore.” 

His fingers twitch unconsciously toward the gun.  She waits him out. 

“Fine.  Yes, I want to play with that,” Tony says a minute later, exasperated.  She smirks and turns for the door. 

“Have it to me by Friday, Stark.”

“You still owe me a favor!” he shouts after her.  She hears one of the robots decide only now to spray the fire extinguisher at Tony’s foot. 

The Avengers are having a team dinner on Friday when Natasha excuses herself, ostensibly to use the rest room.  She goes into Tony’s bathroom, out the window, down two stories, into her own apartment, in which she’s relaxed the security measures that would normally make this sort of thing slightly difficult. 

She retrieves the customized rifle from its hiding place along with some other supplies, goes up one flight of stairs, and breaks into Steve’s apartment.  Making sure the rifle is unloaded, she drills the slots of a small gun rack into Steve’s living room wall directly under the picture of Bucky Barnes, and she places the rifle carefully under the photo. 

Even she must admit; it looks pretty damn shrine-like. 

She takes a piece of paper and a pen from the counter and writes Steve a note. 

“It’s not the actual rifle – that one was passed around to other soldiers, decommissioned, and destroyed,” she writes.  “But it’s the closest thing.  Even Tony deserves some credit for helping me customize it.”  She doesn’t sign it, assuming that it’s obvious, and goes upstairs to rejoin the team. 

Later that night, she hears a knock on her door.  Based on the strength of the knocker and the timing between raps, she knows who it is. 

“Steve,” she greets him as she opens the door just enough to stand in it and block the line of sight to into her apartment.  She doesn’t care, but she assumes Barton won’t want Steve to see him naked and tied up in the middle of her living room. 

“Natasha,” he responds.  “I wanted to thank you for the Johnson rifle.  I know that would have been his favorite present.”  He smiles at her, but his eyes are watery.  “That’s all I wanted to say.” 

“No problem, Cap,” she says, slightly uncomfortable with the expression of gratitude.  It’s why she hadn’t given him the rifle in person.  But seeing him in front of her doorway like this makes her heart go out to him. 

“Let’s go look at it,” she says, stepping out and closing the door behind her.  Clint will get over it. 

Steve turns to walk for the stairs and she pads silently after him in stocking feet. 

The rifle gleams in the lamplight and it looks amazing beneath Bucky’s picture and between the view of New York at night. 

“It’s a pretty gun,” she comments. 

“He started with an M1903A1 Springfield,” he tells her calmly, emotion tearing at the vowels just a little.  “Then Stark gave all the Commandos a choice, whatever weapon they wanted with a custom Stark modification, and his eyes just went straight to the Johnson.” 

Steve smiles.

“He loved that gun more than he loved most people.  And I’m not getting on him for being a jerk; he really did like people.  He just liked the gun that much more.” 

Steve reaches out and runs his fingers over the scope, probably imagining it pressed to an eye decades in the past. 

“I’ve actually tried to track it down before.  I’ve tried to find a lot of his stuff, but I kept hitting dead ends.  You guys were so creative in your approach; I never would have thought of replicating the gun exactly, or going to pawnshops, or looking in the back of comic books to see if his letter had been printed.” 

Steve runs a hand over his face, and the tears that have been threatening to fall after two months of the memorial project finally slip onto his cheeks. 

“I’m very grateful.  I don’t really know how to show my gratitude, but please just tell everyone that I’m _very_ grateful.”

Natasha reaches out and awkwardly pats his shoulder. 

“We were glad to do it, Cap.  Believe it or not, we really like you. We want you to like us and like the 21st century.  Even if we can’t replace what you lost,” she says as her eyes go to the picture of Bucky again. 

“So you think he’d like the rifle?” she asks a minute later when Steve’s mostly gotten himself under control. 

“Oh.  Yeah, he’d love it.  Most of the other stuff he’d consider junk, but the rifle, he wouldn’t be able to stay away from.” 

“Well, it’s not junk to you, but I agree that the rifle is the coolest thing in your apartment,” she says with a grin.  He laughs at her and she drops her hand.  

“No, it’s not junk.  It’s something tangible, you know, something physical that I can look at or touch.  And it really drives it home that he existed.  That he was… Bucky and we had each other even when we had nothing.  That my old life was real.” 

Natasha gets it; she’s lived several lives of conflicting reality, and she still doesn’t know what was concrete and truly hers, and what was just a false memory implanted by the Red Room.  She knows why Steve needs this, how it must balance him and keep him in the here-and-now if he doesn’t have to question his past. 

“It was real, Cap.  Not a dream before you woke up here with us; it was all real, even though it probably doesn’t seem like it most days.”  Steve smiles with one corner of his mouth as he follows her back to his door. 

“Would have been a great dream, though,” he says, clearly trying to elevate the mood after he’s just cried in front of her and then they’d had a _moment_ where she’s come closer to talking about the Red Room with anyone on the team other than Clint. 

She thinks about the Great Depression, Steve’s childhood illnesses, the loss of both Rogers parents, and the cruelties of the war.  A great dream?  Then her eye catches on the picture of Barnes as the door shuts, and she gets it. 

 

Steve lets himself into his apartment after a run with Sam and the first thing to catch his eye, as always, is the rifle and Bucky’s picture. 

He won’t admit that Tony is right, but he’s glad that his walls aren’t bare anymore.  It makes him lighter, somehow, to feel like he’s connected to Bucky and his past even amid the mind-blowing technology and the weird villains of the future. 

“Ran 34 miles today.  That’s basically like running around Brooklyn,” he says to the empty room and the photograph.  He obviously doesn’t think he’s talking to Bucky, because he’s not out of his mind with grief; he gets that Bucky is dead and that’s just a photograph.  A few times a day, though, he has something to say that Bucky would find interesting, and no one else is around to hear it, so he just kind of…tells the picture.  He hopes that it isn’t too strange. 

He pulls his sweaty Under Armor from his body as he walks into his bedroom, but then something makes him stop.  He stares at the comic book on his bureau, and he has the weirdest impression that it’s been moved. 

Have Natasha or Tony been in his apartment again?  He actually doesn’t mind if Natasha has broken in because he trusts that she would only do so with a reason, but he’s going to be miffed if Tony’s been snooping again. 

He picks up the watch, protective instincts kicking in and making him wary about the only few possessions he really cares about.  The watch looks untouched.  Then Steve hears a very small sound from his hand, and with wide eyes, he flips the watch open. 

It gives him the correct time, which, as far as watches go, isn’t that strange.  This watch, however, wasn’t able to tell time this morning because it wasn’t working. 

He definitely knows now that it was Tony, but he can’t find it in himself to be mad. 

“While I asked you to stay out of my apartment, I owe you a thank you,” he says to Tony as the Avengers situate themselves around Bruce’s table for a late lunch.  Tony looks at him with a mouthful of sorghum. 

“I didn’t go into your apartment, per your request, Cap.”  He looks earnest enough, so Steve turns to Natasha. 

“I guess I owe you the thanks, then?”  Her eyes flash as she scents danger before the rest of them catch on.

“What are you talking about, Cap?”

“Someone fixed Bucky’s dad’s watch,” he says, trailing off into confusion when no one claims responsibility for the kind gesture. 

“Maybe it started working again randomly.  I had a watch that did that once,” Bruce says after a minute. 

“I swear some stuff was moved,” Steve tells them.  They all look at him blankly, no one copping to the watch repair.  “Oookay.  I could be wrong, but I think someone was in my apartment and they fixed the watch.  If it’s no one at this table, then we might have a problem.” 

“J.A.R.V.I.S., was anyone in Cap’s apartment today?” Tony asks the ceiling. 

“Yes, sir.  An unidentified male entered Captain Rogers’ apartment at 09:34.”  The team put their utensils down and look at Steve worriedly. 

“Don’t suppose you have camera footage of that,” Steve asks after a minute. 

“All cameras on Captain Roger’s floor, the floor above, and the floor below malfunctioned from 09:21-09:55.”

“What?  J.A.R.V.I.S., why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me that?” Tony asks angrily and possibly trying to save face in front of his friends. 

“I made my report to you immediately sir.  You informed me that you were having a dream about Kate Upton and asked to be left alone.  I’m paraphrasing, of course; your actual choice of language-”

“Okay, thank you, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Tony says quickly.  Clint smirks at him as Natasha says, “So we had a major security breach this morning.  Steve was out; Tony was asleep; I was on my own floor and I wasn’t aware.  Where were you three?” she directs to Thor, Bruce and Clint. 

“I was watching cartoons in my living room.”

“I was in my lab.  I didn’t hear or see anything weird.”

“I was with you, Nat,” Clint says sounding annoyed.  She pushes her chair back and stands up. 

“We need to find out who was in the tower and what he did while he was here.  Tony, see if you can figure out what crashed the security cameras.  Steve, go sweep your apartment and see if anything’s been taken or planted.  Thor, go with Steve in case he needs backup.  Clint, come with me.  Bruce, finish the chili.”  She gives orders and everyone but Bruce disperses. 

Steve makes his way back to his apartment with Thor in tow. 

“What are we looking for?” Thor asks excitedly. 

“Bugs, booby traps, I don’t know.  Anything out of the ordinary.”  Steve opens his door with a little too much force, angry that someone’s been in his apartment near Bucky’s things.  If anything is missing or damaged, he’s going to be furious.  And also, he’s probably going to throw up. 

He checks those things first; the coat is in the closet, seemingly untouched; the rifle and the picture are still hanging on the wall.  The bullets for the rifle are still in the safe.  The random notes in Bucky’s handwriting are still in his desk.  Everything checks out there. 

He begins to pull furniture away from walls, running his hands over every surface, looking for anything that shouldn’t be there.  Thor thinks he’s helping and pulls all of the sheets off Steve’s bed, holding up the mattress to examine it. 

They spend thirty minutes virtually trashing Steve’s apartment and looking for anything suspicious.  They don’t find a single bug or anything remotely dangerous. 

Steve calls Natasha to give her the news. 

“Cap, I think you should see this,” she tells him after he makes his report.

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the main security room off the penthouse.  Get Bruce on your way up; Tony and Clint are already here." 

Steve and Thor take the stairs while Bruce is happy with the elevator.  They arrive at the Penthouse and go into a room that Steve’s never been in, a regular occurrence in the tower.  This room is covered in computer screens, and the other three Avengers are sitting in spinning chairs in the middle of the room so they can constantly turn to see the footage covering every wall. 

“I don’t really have a traditional security system,” Tony tells the newcomers.  “J.A.R.V.I.S. monitors everything, or at least he’s supposed to, so I don’t need some guy sitting in this room all the time.” 

Natasha hits a few buttons on the tablet in her lap and several of the screens go fuzzy. 

“For more than thirty minutes this morning, a frequency interrupted the cameras’ ability to record on your floor and the surrounding floors.  They weren’t transmitting information to J.A.R.V.I.S. and they weren’t saving information.  This is a high-tech, fairly long-range frequency disrupter.  I haven’t seen a lot of these.” 

“We looked at the cameras outside the building and got the same thing,” Clint tells them.  “But Nat’s smart.”

“We hacked into the security systems of the surrounding buildings, and the S. G. Bank got footage of what was going outside our building at 9:32.”  She hits another button, and grainy footage pops up in on the main monitor.  Steve squints and sees a figure dressed in black with long hair and something shiny on its arm floating up to the building on some sort of levitating platform and slipping through the window of what must be Steve’s floor.

The window that’s right next to the rifle. 

“Man or woman?” Steve asks, referring to the hair.

“J.A.R.V.I.S. said a man and the build looks like that of a man,” Tony tells him.

“We know it’s a man, because we know who it is,” Natasha surprises all of them.  All five men in the room turn to look at her, Clint muttering about her sense of drama.

“Who?” Steve demands.  Who’s been in his apartment with his possessions?

“It’s the Winter Soldier.”  She takes a breath and it’s one of the few times Steve’s seen her look nervous.  “He’s a highly-trained former Red Room operative; like me.  He’s been active for several decades, available at the highest prices to terrible people all over the world.” 

“So what does that mean for us?” Tony asks.  “Is he targeting Cap, specifically, or just us?”

“I’m not 100% sure.  You really didn’t find anything in your apartment?  Did you check the vents and floorboards?” 

“Vents yes, floorboards, no,” Steve tells her.  “But you’re telling me that we should be worried about this guy?  Even me?”  He’s not boasting; if a human mercenary poses a threat to Steve, then he’s dangerous enough to hurt any of them.  Although if the man comes from Natasha’s program, then his degree of humanity is in question.  Natasha’s a person, but there’s all sorts of serums floating through her veins, and she’s highly trained besides. 

“Even you, Cap.  I think it’s time to go to ground, at least until we figure out what or who he’s after.”

“Does this mean we get to go to one of your famous safe houses?” Tony asks eagerly.  She shoots him a look. 

“Everyone pack and be ready to go in thirty minutes.  Tony, tell Pepper to take a vacation.  We’ll take three cars.  Everyone move.”  The Avengers with military training snap into action with the order while Tony, Bruce and Thor stare at her. 

Steve goes back to his apartment and packs a duffle bag of clothing, toiletries, and some art supplies.  He puts Bucky’s picture, the comic book, and the watch in the bag, then he drapes Bucky’s coat over his arm and slings the rifle over his shoulder along with his shield.  He debates for a minute before opening the safe to take out the small box of shells, which he slips into the duffle as well. 

He’s in the garage at the appointed time and he’s told that he’ll be riding with Natasha.  That, more than anything else, makes him think that he was the target of this winter soldier’s break-in.  She gives handwritten directions to Clint and Bruce before climbing into a beat-up Jetta that she’s been storing here for months as a getaway car.  Looking longingly at the Stingray, Steve climbs into the driver’s seat. 

“I take it you’re navigating?”

“It’s time to drive, Rogers.  We need to move.”  She sounds calm, but she glances back at Clint and Tony before facing forward.

“We’re all meeting up at your safe house, right?” 

“We’re all going to different safe houses.  Time to go, Cap.”  He turns the car on with a grumpy rumble and puts it into drive. 

“Am I correct in thinking that you and I are headed for the safest house?”  She looks at him side-eyed with a humorless smile.  “That’s what I thought.  So this guy is in all likelihood after me specifically, huh?" 

“It’s hard to tell, but that’s my assumption.  He’s too good to pick a random entry point.  It’s too much of a coincidence that he broke into your floor specifically during the time window when you were out.  It makes me think you’re being watched.” 

Steve cranes his neck to look out of the windshield at the roofs around them. 

“Sounds not good.” 

Natasha taps her fingers lightly against the side of her abdomen and her silence speaks volumes. 

 

After switching cars three times, Steve knows that the spy life is not for him.  How Natasha does it is beyond him.  He’s completely exhausted from all the backtracking and bouts of acting by the time they get to an apartment in New Jersey that looks like it’s seen better days. 

Natasha lets him in and tells him to sleep while she checks the perimeter and keeps watch.  Steve drapes Bucky’s coat over the back of the apartment’s lone chair and then settles down on the mattress in the corner to sleep.  He unconsciously hugs his bag to his chest, feeling off-kilter. 

He hears Natasha come in a few minutes later. 

“How do you even find a place like this?” he asks to make conversation.  They’d mostly been quiet in the car earlier, but they’d had the radio. 

“I own this building.”  It’s news to Steve. 

“I hate to tell you this, but I feel like a lot of shady things happen in this building.” 

“They probably do.  Hiding out isn’t exactly glamorous, Steve.”  She sits next to him on the mattress and props her upper body against the wall.  He feels her fingers smoothing through his hair, and wonders at how comfortable she is in this life. 

“Go to sleep, Steve.  You’ve been driving for hours.”  He obeys.

When Steve wakes up several hours later, Natasha isn’t sitting next to him.  He rolls over and arches his spine, the movement alerting him to the fact that Natasha is slumped on the floor next to the mattress. 

He sits bolt upright.  Natasha would never fall asleep when she’s supposed to be keeping watch, and she’d never sleep with her face against the dirty floor, her arm flung out haphazardly.

He turns slowly toward the chair on the kitchen linoleum. 

There’s a man with long, brown hair that desperately needs a wash even more than the carpet in this place.  He’s sitting in the chair and looking right at Steve.  He’s wearing a mask like a muzzle and his eyes are partially covered by his hair.

He’s wearing Bucky’s jacket.  And holding Bucky’s rifle. 

“Those aren’t yours,” Steve tells the man as he slowly stands up, hands raised in front of him.  “And Widow had better still be alive.”  He shuffles slowly around the mattress, telegraphing each movement in advance, until he’s next to Natasha.  Without taking his eyes off the man, he lowers one hand to her neck and feels a weak, but present, pulse. 

Steve stands up fully, aware of how exposed he is.  He sees his duffle ripped open and his t-shirts and underwear flung about next to the bed, so he doesn’t doubt that the man’s located the shells and loaded the rifle. 

“Are you here to kill me?” he asks.  He doesn’t get an answer.  “Because you could have just hid in my closet at the tower.  Would have saved you the trouble of following us up and down the turnpike.” 

The man aims the weapon at Steve.  He knows he can survive a hit from this rifle with his enhanced strength and healing, but there’s always a way.  If the man pumps every single shell into Steve’s heart, that sounds like an effective way to kill Captain America. 

One second Steve is standing helplessly before their attacker, the next, he’s flipping through the air and kicking the man in the chest.  The soldier fires the weapon as the chair tips backwards with him in it, plaster and dust raining down on them as the bullet hits the ceiling.

Steve kicks the man again by the time he rights himself, and he tosses the weapon aside carelessly before taking out a knife and a much more compact gun from the black combat gear underneath Bucky’s coat.  It enrages Steve to see it on him, so he ducks and weaves away from the weapons as his fists connect with the man’s blocking arms. 

“Take it off,” he growls as he throws the man into the counter.  The winter soldier goes with the throw and uses the counter to catapult himself back towards Steve after he’s struck it with a force that would break a normal man’s back.  So Steve knows he’s dealing with someone jacked up on Soviet copycat super serum. 

Steve connects a punch to the man’s ribs, but he gets hit in the head a minute later.  It blurs his vision for just a second and, apparently, a second is all the winter soldier needs.  He grabs Steve’s wrists and wrenches them behind Steve’s back, then Steve feels some sort of metal cable encircle his wrists and secure them. 

He slams his head back into the man’s face, and he hears a groan as he tries to break the impromptu bindings.  The metal doesn’t give, and Steve knows he’s dealing with Vibranium or Adamantium or one of those compounds. 

He turns to see that his hit has knocked off the soldier’s mask and the man’s nose is bleeding freely.  Spitting blood and hair out of his face, he punches Steve in the gut with the arm Steve quickly realizes is made of metal and forces him to his knees.  Then he brings the metal arm back, winding up, and slams it into Steve’s temple. 

He crumbles, losing consciousness for a few seconds before curling into himself and willing the healing to speed itself along. 

The soldier drags him back to the mattress and rolls him onto it.  Steve sees some blood on the pillow, so he knows that he’s bleeding from at least one place on his head. 

He watches the soldier bend down and pick up the picture of Bucky.  Steve loves that picture, but it’s not like the coat or the watch that are truly irreplaceable, so he keeps silent. 

“Who?” the soldier asks and his voice is cracked. Raw like he never uses it, preferring to communicate with abject violence. 

“Wha'?” Steve responds intelligently.  He needs three, maybe four minutes, then he’ll shake this concussion and be fine. 

“Who is the man in the picture?” the soldier surprises Steve by stringing together a sentence, still sounding like someone who rarely uses his vocal cords. 

Steve drags himself into a sitting position, not understanding why the soldier cares. 

“That’s Bucky,” he says after a beat.  “He’s my best friend.  He died in 1944.”  The soldier stares at the picture. 

“His eyes are brown.  Like dirt,” he croaks, and Steve doesn’t know if this conversation would make sense without a head wound or not. 

“Actually, his eyes are blue.  It’s a long story.  His eyes should be blue, but no one knows that, because they just have black and white photos of him.” 

The soldier puts the picture down and looks around at the mess on the floor.  He picks at one of the dirty sheets on the mattress and then raises it to his face, probably in an attempt to wipe off the blood and grime, but only succeeding it smearing it around.  He drops the sheet corner and pushes his hair back with his hands, holding it above both ears like a headband. 

He stays like that and looks at Steve like he’s waiting for Steve to say or do something.  There’s a question in his eyes and

his eyes and

his eyes and

his

eyes

are

Bucky’s.

Steve stares into his face, filthy and bloody, with two damningly blue eyes staring at him and pinning him to the bed. 

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he breathes.   And then the word that he’s been saying but never addressing for far too long: “Bucky?” 

“Steve?” the soldier whispers back.  His voice doesn’t sound any better and it jerks Steve back to the present. 

“Cut my hands free,” he orders, still in disbelief.  The soldier bends forward with yet another knife that materialized from his uniform and cuts through the metal. 

As soon as Steve can move his hands, he brings them up to Bucky’s face, slapping him with the franticness of his movements.  His wooziness is gone, replaced by intermingled delight and terror. 

What if he isn’t seeing this right? 

What if he is? 

He runs his thumbs over Bucky’s face, he knows it’s Bucky’s face, and doesn’t know where to start.

So he pulls Bucky’s face forward and kisses him, like he’d always meant to all those years ago. 

 

James, as he prefers to be called this week, sits on Steve’s bed and waits for him to get out of the shower.  The door to the bathroom is open and he can see Steve’s shape through the blurry glass. It both arouses and comforts him.  He can’t handle not having Steve in his line of sight for more than a few minutes. 

While he sits, he runs the chain of the pocket watch through his fingers.  He remembers breaking in three weeks ago and fixing it.  James is good at repairing mechanical things, because he himself is a machine. 

Well, there were some steps between breaking in and fixing the watch.  Breaking in; seeing the rifle that seemed to call out to his hands; seeing the picture of the young soldier that pinged some recognition, though he couldn’t remember from where; seeing the coat that practically demanded to be slipped over his shoulders; seeing the comic that gave him a flash of annoyance without reason; picking up the watch and feeling like he shouldn’t be touching this; and then catching a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror through the open door.  So that’s what the picture had reminded him of – his face. 

From there, James remembers fixing the watch frantically before anyone found out it was broken, looking around the apartment to bug it like he’d been ordered, yet somehow leaving without planting a single listening device. 

His Hydra employers hadn’t been happy.  But something was loose in his head and no one left on the Winter Soldier project really remembered how to control him.  That knowledge had died with several generations of handlers. 

James knows that there are people out there who want to collect him.  He knows the other people in the tower don’t trust him, especially the red head.  But he wants to be around these things that bring back his memories... Remind him of who he was before he was chopped and zapped and drugged. 

And nothing brings back the memories like the man in the shower does.  Steve is the most familiar thing that tethers him to his past and gives him hope that he can eke his way back to the man who’d cockily described himself as a ‘dashing devil’ who keeps big, powerful Steve safe. 

And even though he thinks it was not like this in the past, in this new future, he’s allowed to creep into Steve’s shower whenever he wants.  So he does. 

“Can we find more stuff for the shrine?” he asks eagerly as he curls against Steve’s back and lets the spray hit the top of his head. 

“You’ve been talking to Tony.  I don’t think either of you actually knows what a shrine is,” Steve says with a laugh as warm water washes over his face and shoulders. 

“I like it,” James argues.  “I want more.  There has to be more, right?” 

“In museums and places like that,” Steve tells him as he turns and slides his hands up James’ sides.  It tickles.  “We can go see them.” 

“But I can’t have them?” James asks bluntly.  He’s still getting used to having wants at all.

“No, you can’t,” Steve speaks directly into his ear.  The reverberations are interesting that way. 

“I still like the stuff you have here,” James says, not wanting to appear ungrateful.  Gratitude is another thing that’s new for him. 

“I like it too,” says Steve.  He pushes his lips against James’ forehead.  “It helped me find the most important part of the J. B. Barnes memorial.” 

“The rifle, right?” James clarifies.  It’s a really cool rifle and he’s looking forward to being trusted enough to shoot it again.

“Yeah, James,” Steve says.  James can hear a smile in his voice.  “I’m talking about the rifle.”

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The S. Rogers Memorial (it's NOT a shrine) to J. B. Barnes [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9076912) by [farkenshnoffingottom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/farkenshnoffingottom/pseuds/farkenshnoffingottom)




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